Wary
by TheQuiltedFox
Summary: An AU fic based on the promo clip and synopsis for s7 e5, 'The Runaways', which at the time of writing/publication is yet to air. Creative is having issues with communication, and one of the team is sleeping in the office. Peggy Olson, Michael Ginsberg, Don Draper, Stan Rizzo, Pete Campbell.


Peggy's waiting for them to arrive. This meeting should have started fifteen minutes ago.

Don steps into her office. 'I can't keep track of this. No one's where they're supposed to be. I assumed we'd be having this meeting elsewhere.' He holds a hand up; his own kind of apology.

'Didn't you notice, they bulldozed Creative. We're homeless.' Stan's taking up one side of the couch opposite the desk; his arm extended across the backrest. He's claimed that space as his own.

Don just stays where he is, hovering awkwardly by the doorway, his hands clasped together in-front of him. 'You have an office,' he says.

'We gotta meet somewhere in the middle, man.'

Peggy looks from one colleague to the other, the vast difference in their work clothes amusing her, even now.

'Well, it's not formal,' she says. 'I just need to know where everything— where everyone is up to. And nowhere else is free, so... '

Mathis ducks his head around the door. 'Should I be here... '

'No, It just for— It's fine,' she says.

He remains there, loitering just beyond the doorway, waiting for some clearer instruction.

'_You can go_.'

And off he scarpers.

'Anyone seen Michael?' she says, straightening some papers in the file she's holding. 'Stan?'

Stan slowly shakes his head. 'He disappears for hours. Says he can't work in the office around _that thing_,' he tilts his head back, indicating towards the computer.

'It _is _irritating,' she admits, 'no one said it would be so noisy— has it been getting louder? I think it's gotten louder.'

'I don't hear it,' declares Don, shrugging.

'_How?_' cries Stan.

'It's easy to block out what you don't want to think about.'

Peggy swears there's a look directed at her. It's smug and it's petty and it's knowing.

'Stan... '

'I'm on it.' He offers up half a smile, which she reciprocates. With a groan, he's off the couch and out the door.

There's an uncomfortable silence.

Even though there's a seat free, Don stays where he is.

Probably so he can leave quicker, Peggy thinks. She looks behind her at the desk, still leaning against its edge. There's nothing left to adjust, so she settles on moving the stapler from one side of the desk to the other.

From the corner of her eye she catches movement, but it's just Don, crossing his arms. She pretends she wasn't looking, and moves the stapler back.

Her eye's drawn to a tagline; something Ginsberg put forward last week. She clears her throat. It sounds squeaky and shrill. She tries again, aiming for that lower register that commands respect, 'You know, Michael— '

'_Michael_.' Don laughs disparagingly. 'You know he hates you.'

She pushes off from the desk, taken aback. Her jaw locks.

'I don't think that's true.'

But she frowns, lending it some thought, and gives in with a single little nod.

'He just... doesn't like where I am... and where he _is._'

'Don't kid yourself.'

The uncomfortable silence returns. Neither make an effort to fill it.

Stan returns, reclining back onto the couch. Michael follows a few steps behind.

'My master snaps his fingers and here I am.' he declares, before closing the office door far more curtly than necessary.

'Peggy's the one who called the meeting, not me,' croons Don, bemused.

'I know that,' Michael says, nudging past him to perch at the free end of the couch.

Don gives Peggy a look. _Told you so. _Peggy rolls her eyes and sighs.

'Ready. All right. Don, you can start us off.'

**.**

**.**

**.**

'There's no one in the office. The phone's just ringing out.'

'It's eight pm, Pete, on a Friday. Of course there's no— '

'Yes, well. _We're still working here_. There's usually someone to cover the time difference.'

If she'd unlocked her front door five minutes later, she would have missed Pete's call... and she'd be glad for it. Her coat's unbuttoned but still on, and her satchel's still tucked under her arm.

'I really don't know why that— '

'You just forget about us, don't you. Well thank you Don _Draper!_' he really spits that last word out.

'What! Pete, this isn't anything to do— '

'Isn't it? Ted needs a report from Creative.'

'He _is _Creative.'

'_New York Creative_.' There was that drawl to his voice, as though talking to an imbecile.

Peggy could match it, 'Well, that's Lou then, isn't it.'

There's a short, sharp laugh from the other end of the line. '_Lou_ passed me on to you,' he says. 'I was wrong. It's not just California you don't bother talking to. You must all walk around that office with your eyes and ears covered over.'

'Lou's up-to-date.'

'Then why am I calling? _He passed me on to you._'

'It's after eight.'

'And?'

'Everything's at the office.'

'_And?_'

She closes her eyes and lets out a long stream of breath.

'LA's changed you.' she says, already buttoning her coat back up.

'No it hasn't.' Each syllable is sharp.

'No. Of course, you're right.'

**.**

**.**

**.**

Peggy allows the doors to SC&P to close behind her with much noise and little ceremony. There's no one around to disturb, well, maybe the cleaners. She checks her watch; no, they won't be in for another hour or so.

She's about to make a beeline for Lou's office, when there's a loud shuffling sound just ahead of her. She slows down, but can't exactly say she's nervous. People work late. Sure, that trend had curbed lately, but still... However, it's when there's no further noise she feels a twinge of panic in her gut.

As she rounds the corner into the hallway leading to her office, there's a dark flash of movement as something ducks down behind a secretarial desk. The top of a head is still visible...

'_Michael?_'

He stands up straight, quickly resuming some kind of composure. He'd nearly pull it off too if it weren't for the wads of white tissue stuffed in each ear.

'_What are you doing!_' she hisses.

He frowns at her. Then after a moment, takes the tissues out, dropping them into a nearby bin.

'What are you doing?'

'I _was_ trying to sleep, that is, until I thought there was an intruder. Who slams the doors like that?

'You're sleeping here?'

'Trying to. Or did you not hear me over this... this fucking _machine_!' He swings around to direct that at the computer. 'It's interfering with my brain. It gets inside my head and werrrrrrrrrrrr, like driving in a screw. I can't write in these conditions. I can't sleep. I'm getting headaches all the time.'

'Well, you really shouldn't stay here overnight,' she says, 'of course you're going to wake up with headaches.'

'You hear it too!' he says, lowering his voice, conspiratorially.

'Everyone hears it, Michael.'

She makes a move towards her office but Ginsberg shadows her.

'What?' she snaps.

'Could you make coffee?' he hesitates... 'I don't know how to get that machine working right.'

She sighs, but honestly, she could use a little waking-up herself.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Peggy's high-heeled footsteps echo through the office. It would be silent if it weren't for the hum of the computer. Actually, that makes it all the more unsettling. While she waits for the fresh pot of coffee to brew, she walks back to look at what was once the Creative lounge. The clear walls they've surrounded it with... that _monolith_... make it look like something you'd find in a gallery or museum, as though it's something to admire. It was awful.

'I hate it. It makes me sick.' Ginsberg steps into view at the other end of the hall. He's not facing her. He's not even facing the machine. His wary face is reflected in the black glass of a window, as clear and crisp as in a mirror.

Peggy waits for him to say more, but nothing comes. He has the peculiar ability of going from saying very little to saying an awful lot without warning. It must just be one of those rare quiet days...

With a nod she returns to the coffee. It's hot and strong and sorely needed.

She's overfilled the mugs. Taking slow, even steps; she calls out to him. 'Michael?' It's odd to call him by his first name when there's no one else around, but it feels like they've lost some of their familiarity, and "Ginsberg" seems too friendly now.

There's no answer.

'_Michael?!'_

'In here... '

Peggy stops, frustrated. 'Where?'

'Office.'

She rolls her eyes, 'Which one?'

There's a pause. Then—

'Yours.'

By the time she gets to him - and without spilling a drop of coffee - he's taken up the spot Stan had earlier that day. He leans forward on the couch, resting his forearms on his knees. He's tapping a heel up, and down, up, and down, and he reminds Peggy of a spring or coil about to release. Even sitting down there's a nervous energy about him. It's a little contagious at times, she'll admit.

He doesn't make a move to take one of the mugs, so she sets his down at the edge of her desk and sits at the other end of the couch.

They're quiet, but it's not too bad. She'd take this over another minute's silence with Don.

There's not much choice except to watch him. It doesn't take long before he settles and stops tapping his heel. He starts blinking furiously like he's trying to stay awake. On impulse, Peggy reaches across for his coffee mug and puts it in his hand. He just looks at it for a moment, stifles a yawn, then takes a sip. Then a gulp.

'_Why?_' she asks.

He doesn't need her to elaborate. 'My father met this... _woman_... ' he says.

'Oh.'

He spins around in the seat so quickly that it takes Peggy by surprise. But he's facing her now and there's that energy behind his dark eyes.

'Don't— Don't twist my words— she's fine. Lovely— if you like that kind of thing— but it's all so foreign. My father's acting like we're some other kind of family, and he agreed with her when she said I should move out; a_ young man like me, surely I wouldn't want to bring girls back... with them in the apartment_. What girls! What _girls_?'

'They kicked you out? that's awful— '

'I left. They don't need me causing grief. They're in love— they aren't going to want me around. It'll be fine, I just gotta find a place, but then things get in the way, you know.'

'When... How long have— '

'Nearly a week— '

'A week! I thought maybe a couple of nights— and no one's found out?'

'I'm very quiet,' he sees Peggy raise her brow. 'Well, I'm very tidy. There's not much to it actually. I'm surprised more people don't try it. It's just this damn computer. I swear it's getting louder everyday.'

She was glad to hear someone shared that thought.

'I have rooms,' the offer comes out from her mouth before she's even aware of the thought.

'Really?' There's genuine interest there. 'What, in you're apartment?' Maybe a little skepticism.

'No, in my building. There's two apartments vacant... they're not huge, but they're bigger than what you'd find in Manhattan for the same price.'

'I can afford it.'

'I know.' She's seen his wages.

'Great, so you'd be my boss _and_ my landlady. What are you gonna do; change my locks if you don't like my work.' There's a hint of bitterness in there.

'There's an idea,' she croons.

'I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Are you serious? Really? Because I can't lie, I need this.'

'I am.' She wonders though if she'd make the same offer had it been office hours, and he'd been snapping back at her every word. She won't take it back though. She's not that cruel.

'Come on. Grab anything you have and we'll head back. You can have my couch tonight until you get things organised.'

'This couch— it's comfortable?'

'Very.' How many mornings had she woken up on it; glass in one hand, work file in the other...

**.**

**.**

**.**

After a few days with her new tenant, she still isn't regretting the offer. Sometimes a quick decision really could be a good one.

The team was leaving her office once again. They'd caused some grief with the LA office by not passing on their reports right away. Lou took none of the responsibility, of course.

Mathis leaves first, followed by Stan, who gives her a warm lop-sided smile. 'Chief.' He already knows, has already warned her what she's potentially getting herself in for. All that time commuting... all the bizarre conversations still to come.

'Michael, don't forget, we're presenting to Lou at three.'

'Yes, Sir!' he says, bowing his head in mock submission.

Don exits with another "I told you so" glare.

He was wrong. Michael didn't hate her. They just... lost each other somewhere along the way. Just got a bit wary of what the other represented, that was all.

He catches the way she's eyeing him.

'What? I won't start treating you different just 'cause, you know... ' but the look in his eyes isn't cold, and that's enough progress for now.


End file.
